The Middle of the Road
by artwithoutemotion
Summary: Stacy and Michael McGowan have always lived comfortably in the middle of things in Tulsa-not Socs, but not quite Greasers either. When Stacy looks to befriend kids from both sides of the tracks, it seems that everyone is forcing her to choose one or the other-and her inability to do so could put her and her brother in great danger.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"Hurry up, Michael!" I shouted up the stairs. "We're going to be late!" My younger brother tramped down the stairs slowly, pale as a ghost and looking terribly uncomfortable in slacks and a button down flannel shirt. "Mom's idea," he mumbled miserably as he noticed my confused glance at his choice of attire.

"I can't have you looking like that on your first day, you'll embarrass me!" I said jokingly. Michael was not amused. "I'm only kidding. Honestly, you'd sweat to death in that thing. It's supposed to be 95 degrees today. Let's hurry on upstairs and find you something else."

After settling on a short-sleeved shirt that both Michael and I approved of, we headed out the door. "Nervous?" I asked him. I realized what a stupid question this was as soon as the words left my mouth. "High school really isn't all that bad," I said, but Michael just looked at me blankly. "Really! All it takes is a couple of days to get used to it. You'll be fine." I punched him playfully on the arm, but I wondered who I was really trying to convince—Michael or myself.

"Stacy!" Michael rubbed his arm. I guess I hit him harder than I thought. "Please, not today." He took a few heavy, nervous breaths before asking, "Can you go through everything you told me last night, just one more time? Please?"

"Okay. To open your locker, it's once to the right, then left, but all the way around, and keep going left until you end up on the second number. And then right again. It's easy, really. Get to Mr. Peterson's class extra early, or he'll hit you with a detention faster than you can say 'tardy.' Your homeroom is upstairs, the first room on the right Make friends with your guidance counselor—it's probably Mr. Kennedy, that's who I have. If you can't find anyone to sit with at lunch I'll save you a seat. And whatever you do, avoid the Greasers. They're bad news. But I don't think you'll have to worry too much about them, they're hardly ever in the advanced classes that you're in. If you see them in the halls or anything, though—stay away."

Michael's eyes were real wide. I was unsure if this outpouring of information made him feel more comfortable, or just more nervous. At this time we crossed the last street before arriving at the front of the school building. From about fifty feet away, a few of my friends spotted me and broke away from the group of Socs they had been chattering away with.

"Stacy! Hi!" Julie shouted as she ran toward me. She nearly tackled me to the ground as she hugged me, as if we hadn't just seen each other three days earlier. Linda and Christine followed close behind her. For a few minutes we made ridiculous small talk—so-and-so did this or that, that boy got so much cuter, that kind of thing—before Julie seemed to suddenly notice my brother's presence. "Oh, Michael!" she exclaimed. "I'd forgotten you start high school this year! The little baby's growing up!" She pretended to pinch his cheek. This was very stupid, seeing as Michael was only a grade behind us. "Sorry," I mouthed to him as he looked at me with an expression somewhere between annoyed and embarrassed.

"Oh my gosh, Bob Sheldon was just telling us the _funniest_ story about his uncle's boat! You've _got_ to hear it, Stacy!" Next thing I knew, Linda had a firm grip on my arm and was pulling me in the direction of Bob and his gang. As I was forced to follow, I turned and looked back apologetically at my brother, who stood and shook his head before heading into the school building.

I listened to the second half of Bob's painfully unfunny boat story until the warning bell finally rang. "I'll see you guys at lunch," I said to my friends as I headed into homeroom. Mrs. Gibson gave the same boring spiel that all teachers are required to give on the first day—tasteful dress only, no gum chewing in class, respectful behavior expected in the classroom, the halls, and the cafeteria…

I snapped back to attention at the sound of the bell signaling the start of our first class—for me, English. Mr. Syme smiled and greeted each of us as we entered the room. "I'd like to seat you alphabetically for now, it'll help me learn your names faster. I apologize for any mispronunciations. He held a copy of the class roster in one hand and used the other to direct Kenny Alexander to the first seat of the first row. "Susan Becker," Mr. Syme then called out, and she took her place behind Kenny. Our teacher paused for a second, and I swore I saw a fleeting smirk before he said the third name.

"Ponyboy Curtis?" It definitely sounded like a question. It was quiet in the split second before the boy stepped forward, but the moment he did, no one seemed to have any qualms about laughing out loud right at him. They might have held back if the boy wasn't a Greaser, but his very slick hair and old plain clothes told the other kids everything they needed to know. Mr. Syme immediately silenced the class, but even I found myself holding back a smirk, even though I had no right to laugh at someone else's name. But really—Ponyboy?

The boy showed no signs of embarrassment as he took his assigned seat. As Mr. Syme continued to direct the class to their seats, I wondered if maybe everyone was so quick to laugh out of nervousness. None of us had ever had a Greaser in our class before—as I told Michael, none of them had ever been at the same advanced level. I tried to reassure myself—he couldn't cause any trouble during class, right? He'd never dare try anything while a teacher was in the room, would he?

As I realized my name was coming up soon on the class roster, I braced myself for the usual giggles that accompanied the use of my full name. "Eustacia McGowan?" As expected, several people snickered, and I couldn't help but feel my cheeks reddening as I sat down. I didn't look up until the attention had been drawn away from me as the next name was called. When I finally did, I noticed Ponyboy Curtis was still looking right at me. We made eye contact for a moment before we both looked away.

The rest of my classes were much of the same—introduction of the teacher, distribution of the syllabus, and assigning of seats. Ponyboy Curtis was in almost all of my classes. Many of the same people had the same schedule as both of us, but even as the day went on the snide remarks and laughter directed at Ponyboy didn't stop. "Damn Greaser's got no right to be here," I heard one boy whisper. "Look at that oily hair… he likes it that way?" a girl muttered in disgust. It didn't seem to bother Ponyboy, though. It was as if he didn't even hear.

In the cafeteria, I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw Michael sitting with a group of boys he had played soccer with over the summer. I soon noticed Julie, Christine and Linda waving frantically at me, and I joined them at their table.

"Scott Thompson's parents are going out of town next weekend—you know what that means," Christine said with a mischievous grin. Linda nudged my shoulder. "What?" I asked, even though I knew I was starting to blush.

"Stacy, we _know_ you've liked Scott since, like, last school year. Plus he's cute, you should go!"

"I don't know, guys, I think I might be busy," I said. I'd been to a couple of parties thrown by my classmates before, and I hadn't had any fun. Not that the parties were necessarily lame or that I was antisocial or anything, that type of thing really just didn't interest me. Julie groaned. "You are _such _a killjoy." She rolled her eyes. The remainder of lunch discussion consisted of mindless gossip concerning who would and wouldn't be invited to Scott's party and why. For the first time I could remember, I was actually grateful for lunch period to be over.

After school, I met up with Michael outside. "How'd it go?" I asked.

"It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be," he said with a sheepish smile.

"See? I told you. I told Julie I'd wait for her here, and then we're gonna walk to the ice cream shop. Is that okay with you?"

"Yeah!" He replied enthusiastically. It was a silly question to ask, really.

We met up with Julie and headed in the direction of the ice cream shop. It wasn't long before I noticed Ponyboy and two of his friends farther back, taking the same route we were. Julie saw me turn around, and she did the same. "Ugh, they're probably following us," she said as she started to walk faster. "Those pervs."

Ten minutes later, the three of us were seated at an outdoor table enjoying chocolate ice cream cones when I heard a soft, rather shy voice behind me. "Hey, Stacy." I turned to see that the voice belonged to Ponyboy Curtis. I wasn't sure how to react, but he continued, "I think I—"

But Julie cut him off. "What are you doing, Greaser?" she shrieked. "Get out of here, hood!" He stood in shock and embarrassment as Julie grabbed my arm and pulled me along beside her as she hurried away. For a brief second I looked back.

I don't think I'd ever seen anything quite as sad as the look in Ponyboy Curtis's eyes that day.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

As had become the usual, my father was not home from work in time for dinner that night. Michael and I set the table for three as my mother put the finishing touches on the spaghetti she prepared for us. It was silent for a few moments as the three of us took a first taste.

"The sauce is a tad bland," my mother remarked, probably fishing for a compliment.

"No, Mom," I stopped her. "It's perfect."

She gave me a small smile, but her eyes were sad.

"Did you look again today?" Michael asked her. He was referring to the job position my mother had been hunting for over the last several weeks. My father had recently lost his job as manager of a department store in Tulsa and been forced to take a job for a local construction company, roofing houses and such by day and doing office work and God knows what else at night. We were getting by on my father's considerably smaller paycheck, but Michael and I knew this wouldn't last forever.

"I'm beginning to run out of ideas," my mother said, trying to hide the frustration in her voice. "I hoped I wouldn't have to do this, but I dropped off a letter with the seamstress on Main Street."

"It's a good idea, Mom," I said. "You're great at sewing and that place has been looking for help for a while now."

"I know, but…" she trailed off and pursed her lips before continuing. "I saw Joan Stevenson while I was there, she came to pick up a dress… it was so humiliating. This whole thing is humiliating—for both me _and_ your father." She paused again. "I'm so sorry, both of you." She closed her eyes.

Michael and I looked at each other. "It's not Dad's fault he lost his job—and none of this is your fault, either," my brother stated. I couldn't help but smile—my little brother was always the glue holding us all together, the calm, easygoing one in the face of trouble. I loved him more than anything. "Besides, you've been friends with Mrs. Stevenson for years—do you really think she cares if you have to work or not? That's stupid. Most people wouldn't even do what you and Dad are doing to get back on your feet."

"Michael's right," was all I could think to say. He really was, but what he said left a sinking feeling in my stomach.

"I think I'm full," I said, pushing my half-full plate away.

"Are you sure?" My mother looked confused. "You always finish your food."

"I'm just not feeling well," I told her. "I have a bit of a headache. Long day. I just need some fresh air." I stood up from my chair and left, forgetting to clean my place at the table.

_What is wrong with me?_ I wondered. This kind of thing had never bothered me before, so why did it now? I couldn't shake the strange feelings of guilt and confusion that had been plaguing me all afternoon.

It was still light outside on that late August evening, but the sun had set just enough so that the temperature cooled down a bit. It brought me back to the nights that my father and I would take walks together after dinner, just the two of us. That was years ago, though, before I really had to worry about schoolwork and my father had to work all the time.

I heard quick footsteps behind me. "Are you thinking about what happened after school?" Michael asked me innocently.

I breathed a long sigh. "Yeah," I admitted.

"Me too," Michael said. "I feel bad, kind of. We shouldn't have walked away… right?"

"I don't know," I replied. "I mean, the kid's a Greaser, so…" It occurred to me then that I didn't really know what I meant by saying that. I really didn't know anything about Greasers, did I? Sure, I'd heard many horror stories from my friends, but was there much truth to them?

"I wonder what he was going to say to you," my brother said. Honestly, I hadn't thought about that at all. I had been so shocked by the idea of a Greaser approaching me—Greasers and Socs never crossed paths unless it was to cause trouble—that I hadn't thought about the reason why.

"Mike, do you consider yourself a Soc?" I blurted.

He thought for a long moment. "I guess so," he said before shaking his head. "In some ways. I mean… yes, because I'm definitely not a Greaser. Do you have to be one or the other? A Greaser or a Soc?"

"I don't think there's anything else."

"Then… yeah. I guess I'm a Soc. With a smaller house and less money."

Michael was right. He and I were two of the few kids at our high school that didn't fit easily into the category of either Soc or Greaser. Sure, we dressed like Socs, but having a father who once received an employee discount at the local department store and a talented seamstress for a mother always played a big part of that. Our house was comfortable, but smaller than those that many of my friends lived in—"quaint" was the word my mother sometimes used to describe it. The house was located in a rather ambiguous neighborhood, though, filled mostly with smaller houses like ours, but occupied by elderly or childless couples. One block over on one side began one of the wealthy Soc neighborhoods, but many Greasers lived just a few blocks over on the other side. Michael and I rarely ever walked that way.

"So what are you going to do?" Mike asked me.

"About what?"

"Ponyboy Curtis!"

"Oh… probably nothing. Just pretend like it never happened."

"What if he tries to talk to you again?" Michael was starting to get on my nerves. And I wasn't sure if it was because he was testing my patience or my ethics.

"He won't!" I exclaimed. "I'm sure Julie and the others will see to that."

"Julie's a bitch," Michael muttered. I slapped him on the arm.

"Shut up! She's my friend. She was just looking out for me." Part of me knew Michael was right to be angry with her, but Julie and I had been inseparable since grade school. She could be judgmental at times, sure. But really, who wasn't?

"Looking out for you? How? She doesn't know Ponyboy Curtis at all."

I had no answer for him. Was I afraid of what a Greaser might do—or what people would think if I was seen with one?

"I couldn't open my locker today," Michael said quickly.

"Oh, Mike, I'm sorry. Did someone help you?"

"Yeah—Ponyboy did."

I stopped in my tracks. "You talked to a Greaser?"

"I was getting frustrated and he was walking by and offered to help me." That explained why Michael was so quick to defend him tonight. And my brother probably felt worse about what happened after school than I did. Ponyboy Curtis went out of his way to do help my brother, and we repaid him by running away?

"He's in a bunch of my classes," I told Mike. "I'll say thanks tomorrow."

"Will you?" My brother was skeptical, and rightfully so.

"Yeah," I said weakly. I just had to figure out when I could talk to Ponyboy without my friends around. I knew that what I had done that afternoon was wrong, but I also knew that if Julie or anyone else was around when I approached Ponyboy the next day, the same thing would happen all over again.


End file.
